The Scarlet Tide
by Maddux
Summary: The Great War threw this country into turmoil. How will two hearts fare when the blood stained battle lines are drawn? AU. AH. One-shot. Repost. Civil War-ward.


**The Scarlet Tide  
**a Civil War one-shot by  
_Maddux_

* * *

**Note and Disclaimer:** _I have made sure that this story is coming to you as historically accurate as possible – but as none of us were living during the mid-1800's, I have taken creative license to build onto what documented history cannot provide. The notes passed between Brig. Gen. Averell and Brig. Gen. Fitzhugh Lee are their own words. This work of fiction was inspired by a song called The Southern Girl's Reply by Tim Eriksen._

_All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. Many people mentioned in this story did exist and hold their rightful place in American History. This is written based on actual events which took place during the American Civil War._

_Special thanks to my beta TayBee, and pre-reader twinightout._

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**.**

_**E. A. Masen**_

The Rappahannock River rushed swift and deep, swelled with rains that had been falling heavily for two days. The winter of 1863 had been cold and uncomfortably wet, but today dawned dry and clear.

The Confederates had been taunting us for weeks. They had even taken some of our men as prisoners on a raid that had gone wrong. Major Hooker was furious at the losses and demanded that we put a stop to these raids.

The fact of the matter was that the Johnny Rebs were better on horseback, and could out-ride us. The North may have been better equipped with weapons and more men at its disposal, but the Southern forces had experience and a competent line of command that gave them the slightest advantage.

The Confederate cavalry's Brigadier General Fitzhugh Lee and our Brig. Gen. William Averell were close friends and had attended West Point together. It was Lee and his troops on the other side of that swollen river who were taunting us.

A message had been sent over from Lee this morning. I had just returned to camp from a scouting mission as Averell read the missive aloud to the men.

_**I wish you would put up your sword, leave my state, and go home. You ride a good horse, I ride a better. If you won't go home, return my visit, and bring me a sack of coffee. Your friend, Fitz**_**.**

Averell crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it into the campfire.

It was a deliberate challenge. The tick in Averell's jaw told me that both gloves were off, now. He looked like he was itching for a fight.

**.**

"Calvary Corps, second division, mount up!"

That was our call. Averell had assembled nearly twenty-one-hundred cavalrymen to meet Brigadier General Lee across the ford in the river.

It was early, before dawn, and regiments were being dispatched around the enemy.

My horse sidestepped beneath me, almost as if he sensed the danger that awaited us on the other side of the river. We found that Confederate sharpshooters had felled trees, creating a wooded fort, keeping my regiment from safely crossing the fast flowing water.

Gunfire scorched the air. Bullets whizzed by my head, too close, much too close. It took us over an hour to finally wear the sharpshooters down and deplete their ammunition supply. The charge sounded and our cavalry thundered across the river. The sounds of violently splashing water and horseshoes clattering on the riverbed filled my ears. The men to my right and left spurred their horses, yelling as loud as they could.

The Confederate defenses fell back and retreated into the woods. We gave chase for a few miles until we came to a clearing. The field was laid out for battle. A horn blast from the Rebels told us that they were making their stand. Our artillery battery followed behind us and soon set up the Union defense. We had them outnumbered, outhorsed, and outgunned.

For hours our batteries fired against one another. Toward mid-afternoon, the Rebels munitions were getting low; I could tell by their scant and sporadic firing patterns.

One of our brigade leaders threw up a call and forced a charge when we saw the Confederate cavalry step out onto the field. I held back, because I knew this charge was against Averell's orders. He knew Jeb Stewart was here with his horsemen, and didn't want to put our ranks at risk.

The men in my cavalry were crazed, determined that the Rebels wouldn't get the best of them again. They fought without conscience; they wanted to teach the boys in gray a lesson.

Amongst the tangle of horses and riders, I saw two Rebels shot from their mounts and fall to the ground. I saw red stain gray, turning it black. But the two Confederates stood, scrambling to defend each others' backs. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched them draw their swords and fight with all the life they had left. I wanted to holler out to the men who were fighting the Southern soldiers – to tell them to stop what they were doing – but they had murder in their hearts. The two Rebels were slowly slaughtered.

I swallowed back a mouthful of bile as the blue beat the gray. I felt ashamed of my Union brothers in that instant.

After that display, a halfhearted battle commenced for the rest of the day, until Averell decided to pull back. The horses and the men were exhausted, and he deemed it proper to withdraw. We had two Confederate officers, who had been captured, sent back to Lee with a sack of coffee and a note that read:

_**Dear Fitz, Here's your coffee. Here's your visit. How do you like it?**_

It was technically the Confederates' day, but the Union claimed the moral victory.

That evening, before sunset, I walked the field where I'd seen the two Rebel cavalrymen fall. They weren't hard to find. Their sabers stood up from the ground like monuments commemorating their fall. The sabers had been thrust through their hearts.

Tears fell from my eyes as I pulled the swords from their chests. The first was a young boy, probably not even twenty years. He had dark blond hair, and there wasn't any scruff on his face. His brown eyes were lifeless and glazed over in death – tear tracks had dried rolling down his dusty temples. His last moments had been tear-filled. I placed his saber on his chest and laid his right arm over it.

The next boy looked older – strong and muscled. Someone's spurs had cut him up bad. His eyes had already closed. I did the same with his sword.

I ran off the field, afraid to let my comrades see my tears. They wouldn't have understood.

Victory was all their hearts and minds could understand.

But I knew there were consequences that came with every victory.

_**.**_

_**I. M. Swan**_

I still couldn't believe that they were gone. Even though there were no graves that marked their bones in the cemetery down the street, I remembered them every day in my heart. They were buried somewhere near the Culpeper County battlefield in northern Virginia that bore witness to their deaths. With distinct clarity, I called to mind the loved ones I'd lost. Michael Swan, the closest of my three brothers, my best friend, and Jacob Black, my beloved, who was to be my husband.

I could vividly recall the day of their leave-taking. Papa had driven us to town in our fine carriage. I remember how all the boys in gray were magnificent in their uniforms, and marched proudly down the dusty main street of Liberty, Bedford's county seat. They were smiling with their chests puffed out, ready to staunch the Yankees in a fight that no one thought would last more than a few days. Bedford County rallied hard and fast, eager and ready to give aid to Virginia when the news hit of our state's secession from the Union. Four regiments of soldiers left that day for Lynchburg, just ten miles northeast of Liberty. In those companies, headed out to receive their soldiering training and to receive orders, were all three of my brothers and my beloved.

That was in the spring of 1861.

I was loath to let them go. I made Michael and Jacob promise to look after one another, to each keep the other safe. Oh, how I wish I could take back those selfishly spoken words. Jacob and Michael were of the same age and had been like two peas in a pod since the cradle. Jacob and I were sweethearts, and had started courting that Christmas past; I knew he was going to ask me to be his wife before too long.

"Don't you worry, little Bell, we'll be back home soon, and surely before it comes time to harvest." Michael had smiled down at me, his apple butter-brown eyes brimming with excitement, his body vibrating with enthusiasm for what lie ahead. My favorite brother, he had always doted on me and looked after me. He was the brother that taught me how to ride and how to fish, along with a number of unladylike things that Mama had scolded him for teaching me. We were closer in age than our eldest brothers. While Emmett and Jasper were old enough to do chores and work on the farm, Michael had often been appointed as my keeper. It was a sin for me to worry so much about him, but he was my best friend.

"Keep yourself and Jacob out of harm's way. Come back home, safe and sound!" I had wailed, tears marring my vision as I held him tight to me. Michael stepped away to reveal Jacob right behind him.

"Jacob, take care. Look after Michael." I looked deep into his dark eyes as I whispered, "I love you."

Jacob was tall and strong and fair of face. He was the foreman of his father's plantation. William Black always said he would raise no fop of a son. All the girls in town were envious that I had captured the attentions of the handsome Jacob Black. Jacob had played with Michael and me when we were children. Mama knew from the time that we were young that we'd make a pair one day.

"And I love you, my Bella Marie. I believe we are doing God's will. I know that He will see us through. Be brave." He put a sweet kiss on my forehead. It wouldn't have been proper to give me a real kiss on the side of a public street, with my family watching. There was no chance for us to sneak in real kisses. I watched him turn, lay his woolen kepi over his cropped black hair, and disappear into the crowded street of soldiers. I didn't want him to go. I didn't want any of them to go. But they were strong and brave. Just like Emmett and Jasper, who were more than pleased to get to fight for the Confederacy, for our independence.

Fifes played jaunty patriotic tunes and were accompanied by the rat-tat-tat of drummers keeping time. I'd cried, as I stood next to my mother and father waving our handkerchiefs as our proud boys in gray marched along that dusty street on their way to victory.

It was the last time I ever saw Michael Swan and Jacob Black.

Jacob and Michael served in the same cavalry regiment under the command of Brigadier General Fitzhugh Lee. I wrote to them, many times and they penned letters to me in their own hand, until the day in late spring of 1863 when we read their names listed under 'Deaths' in the daily columns. Killed in action during a fight they later named the Battle of Kelly's Ford. Michael had been wounded. Jacob wouldn't leave his side. A charge from the Yanks saw that Jacob and Michael breathed their last, trampled and crushed, run-through and stepped upon. A kind soldier from their regiment wrote to Papa, Mama, and me. The worn, stained missive arrived months later, relaying every bloody detail, sparing nothing of their horrifying deaths.

_**March 18, 1863**_

_**To The Swan Family**_

_**I am writing to deliver news of the most terrible nature. I only knew to write since your son Michael told me to notify his family were something to happen to him in the event of battle. Please know that Michael was a valiant soldier and had the highest regard from our company leader, Brig. Gen. Fitzhugh Lee. **_

_**He fought bravely, one of our finest cavalrymen, and in the midst of the fray was taken down; we were outnumbered 2 to 1. He drew his sword for hand to hand combat and there he fought to the death. Even in the heat of conflict, Jacob Black rarely left Michael's side. Jacob met his end in much the same way.**_

_**They both fought boldly, with reckless daring and their show of bravery was without parallel. We only lost a few men that day, and Michael was one of the best of those men. After the battle, adetail was sent to take care of the casualties and we discovered that their bodies had been treated to atrocious wrongs; there were spur gouges and hoof marks on their faces and on their bodies. Their hearts had also been run through, with their own swords, no less.**_

_**We saw that Michael had a Christian burial and placed him on a quiet knoll near the Rappahannock River with Jacob close beside.**_

_**I have taken the liberty of cleaning his saber and sending that to you, as well as his personal effects. I have done the same for Jacob Black's family.**_

_**With deepest sympathies,**_

_**Private Benjamin Cheney of the 5**__**th**__** Virginia Cavalry**_

Jacob's father, William Black did not survive that winter. His daughters told me that he had died of a broken heart.

Everything changed for us during the war. In mid-June of 1864, Union General David Hunter skirmished through our homeland in Forest, Virginia on his retreat run from Lynchburg. He failed his objective to overtake the great town, but he certainly succeeded in destroying what we had. We'd heard news of the dreaded Yankees drawing closer, and feared that our plantation would be caught in the crossfire. The Yankee soldiers were starved and half-crazed, ransacking our neighbors, and closing in on our own home.

Papa took it upon himself to hide two horses and a wagon filled with our belongings in the forest near our house. He pled for the freedmen and slaves who were still working on our plantation to flee and save themselves, for he no longer had the power to protect them.

Papa hid me and Mama well, and as soon as he deemed it safe enough, we made for a neighboring plantation. The saddest sight, as we left the cover of the trees, was watching our grand house burn to the ground, the flames licking at the night sky as it faded into the black horizon behind us. I clutched Michael's saber to my chest, as well as the tintypes of my loved ones, and cried for all that was lost.

Having no means with which to live by on so desolate a landscape that was left after Hunter's retreat, we moved to Lynchburg, which was spared from the destructive fires of war. Mama's sister lived there and her husband was a doctor in one of the military hospitals. So, for the first time ever, we descended upon the kindness of family, doing the best we could to stay alive, diverting ourselves from the precariousness of our situations. Papa began work at a munitions factory making cartridge shells for our Confederate troops. Mama joined Lynchburg's society alongside her sister, Esme Cullen, and devoted herself to The Cause, raising funds for clothing, food, and supplies for our boys in gray.

My uncle, Dr. Carlisle Cullen, asked me if I'd like to aid him in the infirmary, what withme being of an age in which there was much I could do for The Cause. And idle hands did no one any good in a time of need or in a time of war.

I found myself outside one of the many tobacco factories that Papa had brought his own tobacco to when our plantation was prosperous. It had been made into a hospital. Droves of Confederate soldiers were being brought in by train, all wounded, rotten, and stinking of death. They lined the brick façade of the tobacco house, some leaning heavily on their neighbors, some crying out in agony. Many of the soldiers' dressingswere seeping crimson red blood drawn in battle.

The smell that greeted me at the entrance to the building nearly brought me to my knees. The back of my hand fluttered to my nose as I steadied myself. The wood plank floors were covered in filth and dried blood. There was blood everywhere. Mangled soldiers, legless and armless, stared back at me from their dirty cots. I remembered the faces of my brothers, right before they'd marched off. They were filled with excitement and pride; they sought the glory of victory.

There was no glory here. There was only defeat in the faces of these men.

Carlisle beckoned me further into the vast and cluttered building. I sidestepped bustling women with bandages and bedclothes overburdening their arms. Doctors with blood soaked hands and shirts rushed from one patient to another. I dodged men who were lying about on the floor.

When I was younger, I would often swoon or become ill at the sight and smell of blood, but when I first looked into one of the soldier's faces, I saw not a battle-weary warrior; I saw the face of every one of my brothers. I saw the face of my brother Michael, the face of my love, Jacob. I no longer feared the blood after that first day of working with Carlisle.

I knew I had discovered my rightful place in this hopeless pit of war. Every one of my waking minutes was spent in that hospital. When Carlisle left our humbly shared town-home in the mornings, I was hot on his heels, ready to serve. Every need that I could fill, I filled it. Every young boy or grizzled man that needed comfort, I comforted. The soldiers I tended weren't just any soldiers, they were my brothers and I showered them in every bit of love I could squeeze out of my weary heart. I was needed here and my hands never wanted for work. When Carlisle was ready to go home in the evenings, he had to forcibly drag me out of that makeshift hospital. I was inexhaustible. I didn't want to leave the soldiers for fear that they wouldn't get proper care while I was away – for fear that some of them would no longer be in their beds at my return the next morning.

The more I cared for my fallen brothers, the more my distaste for the Yankees grew. There were just too many tales of how the Yankees ravaged and rampaged whence they came and went, whileour Southern gentlemen-turned-soldiers conducted themselves as such. I had to check my disposition when I began to think badly of the Union troops, on account of there was no denying that Yankee mothers and sisters and wives and daughters lost their loved ones every day, just as us Southerners had. I did sympathize. How could I not?

If I had to care for the occasional Union officer, I did so diligently and efficiently and with kindness, but careful to give only what was required of me. I spared no smile for the men in blue. I did not see in them my loved ones' faces; I only saw the blue Union uniform. I tried my best to not think of them as the killer of my brother or my beloved. I treated them as best my heart would allow. It was what God would have me do, and Carlisle would have my hide if I did not.

**.**

_**E. A. Masen**_

I awoke to the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my life. And I was so thirsty. The thirst and the pain were burning me alive.

Something horrible was gouging at my leg.

My eyes slowly opened and looked down my body. There was a girl, bloodied and sweating, bent over my leg with a knife in her hand. I immediately began to struggle, but the girl looked behind me and motioned to someone. Steady hands gripped my shoulders and held me in place.

"No," my voice strangled out of my throat. "Don't do this..."

The bloodied Angel of Death looked into my eyes. "Calm yourself, soldier. I'm only extracting the lead."

I was panting as I watched her lower the knife again. The sickening glint of the blade looked menacing, as well as the expression on the Angel of Death's face.

"Don't move, soldier. I'd hate to nick this big vein sitting next to your war charm."

I laid back and closed my eyes, grinding my teeth, and gripped the arms holding me down. I tried, desperately, to hold back a scream as the girl dug her knife into my thigh. I heard myself whimpering and gasping. It seemed like it took her forever to dig the musket ball out.

I slumped in relief when she pulled it free of my flesh and laid the bloodied lead on my chest. I nearly jumped out of my skin when she poured a stinging liquid over the wound. I howled as it burned all the way to the bone.

The whole ordeal exhausted me. I couldn't understand why I was so weak. The Angel of Death wrapped my leg. I couldn't summon the strength to raise myself and help her with the task. She was tying off the bandage and getting ready to leave when I called out to her.

"Miss?" She paused and looked down at me. "I need water. May I please have some water?"

The Angel's hostile face softened minutely, and she nodded. She held a canteen to my lips, and I trembled with the effort it took to hold myself up to swallow the water down.

That water was so good on my parched throat. My eyes rolled back in my head when I swallowed.

"Are you going to take me home, Angel of Death?" I heard myself ask.

"You're feverish, soldier. You need an elixir, and rest. Sleep, now." Then she was gone, and I was left to wrestle with my nightmares alone.

When I woke from the horrid sleep the elixir had sent me into, I found that the Angel of Death was hovering over me. She still did not look happy.

"Oh, good. You are not dead. I suppose I'm glad I didn't kill you."

My befuddled mind prompted me to respond, "You mean you aren't here to lead me to the pearly gates?"

"No, soldier. I'm here to heal your wounds so that you can leave my ward."

"You don't want me here?"

"No. But as long as you are here, I know that you aren't killing my brothers. Perhaps I shouldn't try so hard to keep you alive."

"Miss, I would be in your debt should you choose to grant me your tender care in my time of need."

"I'm slap out of sympathy for a Yankee officer. The Southern boys get top priority in my hospital."

I winced at her tone, but admired her spirit; a Dixie girl through and through. "Then whatever you have left to spare, I would be much obliged. May I please have a ladle of that cool water before you go?"

The girl hesitated, almost as if she meant to refuse. An internal struggle must have persuaded her to relent, she sighed and nodded.

She cradled the back of my head with her little hand and brought the ladle to my lips. She could say all she wanted about not sparing any tenderness for a Yankee soldier, because her hand moved with gentleness. She may not have been the Angel of Death I thought her to be. The water she let me drink cooled and quenched me. I was thankful for her kindness. Then she moved on to the next poor soul.

I watched her long after she left me. For every boy in gray, she gave a smile and an encouraging word. And for the first time since the war began, I found myself envious of a bunch of Southern Rebels.

**.**

_**I. M. Swan**_

In mid-April of 1865, we learned that General Robert E. Lee had surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant, chief of the Union armies. The Confederacy was to lay down its arms against the Union. The bloody, seemingly worthless war had finally come to an end.

But the effects of the war were far from over.

With the destruction of the South flung far and wide, money was scarce. There was no money to buy seed, there was no money to hire and pay farm hands. There were no goods for trade. The charred and smoldering South was starting over from scratch.

For all of our loss, the Swan family was blessed. We were blessed to have Esme and Carlisle; we were blessed to be living in Lynchburg.

I continued toiling in the hospital, because there was still much work to be done. Carlisle was pleased with my work ethic, and over the last year, I had become his valued assistant. It was now my life's goal to help those affected by the war.

I worked hard because there was nothing else to do with my life. Where my days were once filled with the entertainment of guests, picnics and parties, pretty ribbons and fancy dresses – none of that existed for me anymore. All that existed for me now was the ceaseless pain and death and destruction wrought by the Great War.

Mama and Papa had aged considerably during the course of the war. Not so muchin years, but in weariness of heart, and from all the trials theyhad to face.

Friends and acquaintances that we used to know were now gone. There was nothing left for them. Even the once wealthiest of landowners were nowhere to be found; how could they pay the taxes due on their lands? Confederate money was no good. How could they work so vast a property without money to pay field hands? Slavery, the former workforce of the south, had been abolished.

During the spring we took a tour of our own lands that made up the whole of the Swan Plantation. There was little left to salvage. A pile of blackened, charred rubble lay behind the still standing smoke-stained columns of our once-beautiful house. The sandstone steps were still intact, and I tentatively took the five steps to the top of the landing. I wept because everything Papa had built in his lifetime was destroyed.

Papa looked out over the land that was once so green and blossoming with life and our livelihood – now overgrown with choking, stubborn weeds. It looked wild and untamed.

"I won't decide what to do with the land until Emmett and Jasper return. We may all be better off selling and take up permanent residence in Lynchburg. There's mighty big talk of industry and manufacturing, perhaps that is the way we ought to go." Papa precisely nodded, his graying hair and graying beard covered the unhappy frown that marred his face.

I had written to Jasper and Emmett to tell them to find us at Carlisle and Esme's home when their regiments were finally released from service. The Cullens had a grand town home with enough room to spare for us all. Esme had planned on having a large family many years ago, but it wasn't in the Lord's Will for her to carry a child to full term. She and Carlisle had already buried three stillborn babies. Esme went to the cemetery every Friday morning to say a prayer over their tiny headstones.

We all waited and waited on Jasper and Emmett to return safely to us. The month of May passed. Spring turned into summer, and finally, in the heat of July, they showed up at Carlisle and Esme's home, just shells of the strapping young men they were that day when they'd marched off to war. Their gray uniforms were in tatters and patched haplessly, over and over, with blue swatches, taken from the uniforms of fallen Yankee soldiers. Emmett's ever-present, easy smile scarcely touched his face anymore. Jasper wore heavy scars on his body that had come from injuries he'd picked up during intensely fought skirmishes. They never talked much about the terrors they faced in battle. Their haunted looks forbade anyone to ask of what they'd experienced.

Jasper decided that he wanted to rebuild the Swan Plantation. He knew it would never be restored back to its former glory, but he had hopes of a profitable farm. Emmett decided to join him. He had garnered skills as a smithy during the war, and he would give Jasper, his brother and brother in arms, all the aid he could give. They had made it through the Great War together, and they weren't going to part from one another now.

Mama and Papa stayed in Lynchburg with Carlisle and Esme. I stayed as well. There wasn't much we could do to help Jasper and Emmett.

But there was much for me to do in Lynchburg.

Lynchburg, for the most part, remained wholly unspoiled by the destruction of the war, but the city was soiled with its casualties. It was the soldier who seemed to suffer most of all. Soldiers lined the streets with nowhere to go. Maimed and dismembered, crippled by disease and pain, they felt they had little to offer polite society, and many were ashamed and refused to go home and be a burden to their already overburdened families.

The government decided to keep the south occupied with Federal troops to waylay any civil unrest and social turmoil. They began to infiltrate into our lives. First it was the appearance of a freed slave in a blue uniform patrolling the length of Main Street. He had a rifle flung over his shoulder and a scowl that frightened children away.

Then there were Federal soldiers standing at the door of my hospital. I was scrubbing the floors when a tall lieutenant stepped into the front of the ward. His Union blue jacket was cut and tailored to grip his body like an oiled glove. Golden chicken guts decorated his arms – a display of his rank. A pistol was strapped to his right hip and a saber hung from the left. A wide-brimmed hat covered his head, but he deigned to remove it when he noticed my presence in the room.

He stepped closer to me and stared. He looked as though he was about to speak, but his stare just intensified. His eyes were the color of mint, just like what was growing in Esme's tiny herb garden behind the townhouse. This officer had no cause for his prolonged perusal of my self, and I did not like it. He wore the color of the enemy – blue. Not just any blue, but the dark blue of the Union.

I hated that color.

I kept the sneer cleaned from my lips, but my eyebrow refused to stay down. "Amputations take place in the back room."

The lieutenant blinked and absorbed my words. His brow dropped low over his mint-colored eyes as he took exception to my words.

"I assure you, Miss, that an amputation is not the reason for my presence here today. I've come in search of Doctor Carlisle Cullen."

I nodded and picked up my scrub brush and bucket of water. I turned and started for the back room, but stopped when I heard the officer's booted feet on my wet floors.

"That's far enough, officer," I spoke over my shoulder. "Take care that you leave the filth from the bottom of your boots at the door. I've just scrubbed these floors. I will find Dr. Cullen for you." I left the man gaping after me. Truly, I was most fortunate that my Uncle did not hear what I'd said. He'd have scolded me good for that. But I'd been around enough Confederate soldiers to know how to get my cuts in.

The beds weren't as full now that the war had ceased. There were far fewer bleeding men coming to the hospital. That is why I had the extra time to scrub floors. The men that remained were still healing from their wounds, and some were men who could not help themselves; lost and forgotten.

Carlisle was also cleaning in the amputation room. He'd scrubbed everything down more than once, but the stain of blood just wouldn't leave the soiled planks.

"Uncle, there is a Federal here to see you."

Carlisle looked up, slightly surprised. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows and his sandy-gray hair was falling over his forehead. "A Federal? Did he say what he wanted?" He started rolling his sleeves down and fixed the cuffs at his wrists. I shook my head and leaned back against the wall – a wall I'd sought support from through many gory operations.-

"Right. Best go and see what he wants then." Carlisle checked himself over before exiting the room. He always treated everyone with the utmost respect, no matter which side of the battle lines they'd fought for.

I allowed myself to lean over and peep out the door to watch what was happening in the main ward. The Federal stood tall and straight as an oak tree. He held his tasseled hat beneath his left arm. His hair was closely cropped at the neck, but was in slight disarray at the top of his head. I begrudgingly admitted to myself that he was a handsome man as I studied him at length. Handsome for a Yank, that is. I had no love for the Yankees, and I certainly was not going to entertain rosy thoughts of a handsome Yankee soldier.

Carlisle and the Lieutenant talked at length. I grew tired of simply watching and set back to work. I carried the water pail around to the men still bedridden at the far left side of the infirmary. As I worked and moved from bed to bed, I felt the heavy weight of a stare on my shoulders. I whirled to look behind me and met the eyes of the Yankee officer. He was staring again, and this time he was frowning. Carlisle was still speaking, but the man continued to stare and frown at me. I tore my eyes away because I did not wish to encourage his ungentlemanly behavior. But I had to admit that I'd hardly behaved as a lady around him.

There wasn't much of a lady left within me. My simplified life had boiled down to this: a jaded hospital nurse in one of the bloodiest conflicts this country had ever seen. There wasn't much use for a lady, anymore, in the south. Ladies didn't work or sweat. Ladies didn't see the parts of men that were only to be seen in the marriage bed. Ladies didn't dig through a man's entrails for shrapnel that had sliced up his belly. Ladies didn't haul sawed-off limbs to a pile of rotting bones at the back of a hospital. I shuddered as I recalled those times. I didn't have the time to mull over how bad things were as they had happened, I just knew that they were tasks that had to be done. So I did them.

There was no place for a lady's modesty in this hospital.

I put the water pail and ladle back in their places by the hand pump behind the building and then began straightening the beds in the main ward. Carlisle called me over when he saw that I was close by.

"Isabella, come." I quickly obeyed, but I didn't care to be near the Yankee again. I stayed as far away from him as possible.

"My dear, come and sit. Lieutenant Masen needs to speak with the both of us."

I bit my lip to stop the no that wanted to slip out. I sat instead. I took my time situating myself, smoothing my skirts before looking to the Yankee. I sat with my back ramrod straight. I would not let this man see any weakness in me.

"Lieutenant Masen, this is my niece, and assistant, Isabella Swan. Isabella, Lieutenant Masen."

I only nodded, not trusting my voice to deliver polite words in Lieutenant Masen's company.

"Dr. Cullen, Miss Swan, the nature of my business in the south is to provide government aid to those affected by the war. I am to travel locally with supplies and medicine and food provisions, and distribute them accordingly. I also wish for a nurse or doctor to accompany me and help with medical care. I have always heard much praise for your facility here. That is why I've come in search of you, hoping you will be able to offer your services."

Carlisle was the first to respond. "I would like to help when I can, Lieutenant Masen, but I feel that I would be needed most here. But Isabella is very competent in her skills; I've taught her everything I know. If she is willing, I suggest taking her along."

I frowned at my uncle with a practiced ease. Why would he suggest such a thing? "Pardon me? Take me along?"

"Yes," Carlisle said. "Lieutenant Masen has been commissioned with this task, and he really should take someone with knowledge of medical aid. You would be perfect for that sort of position, Isabella, what with your passion for helping others. And you won't be traveling too far. You'll be home for supper every night. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Masen?" Carlisle smiled and looked to the Federal.

"Yes. We will return every day before nightfall." The Yank nodded as he finished.

I pressed my lips together and glared at my uncle. "And you believe this to be a good idea?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Well, I believe it is what the surrounding communities need, so, yes. I do believe it is a good idea."

"Of course it is," I mumbled. I eyed Lieutenant Masen and sighed.

"Miss Swan, I promise that your safety and well-being will always come first. You are an important part of this mission."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked him. I wanted to know more about his motives before I agreed to anything.

"I'm doing this because I know that many have suffered for the decisions of only a few. I want to help."

Huh. The man seemed to have an elevated sense of duty.

"Please accompany me, Miss Swan, and you will see by my actions that I am sincere."

And so... I agreed.

It was a good thing that the government was trying to do. Supplies started trickling in to the hospital, and we used the half empty ward to store them. The old tobacco house became Lynchburg's aid headquarters. News traveled rapidly, and soon people started coming to us. Carlisle was right. With people flocking in to the hospital, he stayed busy treating those who needed his services.

Lieutenant Masen was, indeed, sincere. He had the wagon hitched and loaded every morning before we set off to the surrounding areas outside Lynchburg. He took to wearing civilian clothing on our daily trips; the people were wary when a Yankee rode up into their yards or passed them on the roads.

I did not converse with Lieutenant Masen very much, besides the occasional comment on the weather. When we reached our destination every day, the work kept us busy, and there was no time for talk. Most days we started home when our supply wagon had been depleted. It usually didn't take long before everything was gone. Food, medicine, clothing; there were so many in need of what we had to offer.

I rode with Lieutenant Masen at the front of the covered wagon, always careful that we didn't touch when we were so close. He behaved as a gentleman should, but I could always feel his eyes on me...

**.**

_**E. A. Masen**_

I didn't know anything more about Isabella Swan than I did the first time I met her formally. She was the most frustrating woman I'd ever encountered.

She was also the hardest working woman I'd ever seen. The women I knew from back home didn't do more than pass a needle through cloth or play a piano. Isabella was a special woman, and I was completely smitten with her. I was so far gone that I was seriously considering asking for a permanent station in Lynchburg. I didn't think I could be parted from her. I lived for the times when I got to touch her hand to help her off the supply wagon. One morning, I didn't put my gloves on. I touched her naked hand with my naked hand. We had both gasped when our warm skins had touched.

Isabella was a hard one to figure out. She always turned her body away from mine, never initiated polite conversation, and it seemed like she never could quite look me in the eye.

"You don't speak very much, Miss Swan," I observed one morning in September – almost two months since we started working together.

She may have shrugged a shoulder. "I'm not much for idle chatter, Lieutenant Masen. I've not much use for it. And no one ever says anything of worth nowadays. I'd rather not be spoken to at all than encourage false words."

I chuckled. "So you don't believe a word that comes out of my mouth?"

"Not if I can help it," she piped.

I laughed outright, then. "Miss Swan, you trust no one, do you?"

"Not if I can help it," she repeated.

After that, I did all that I could to secure her confidence in me. I desperately wanted her to trust me, to come to love me as I loved her.

She was so gentle with the poor folks she helped. I remember the time she'd treated me when I'd been shot the previous year. If it hadn't been for her, I could have been without a leg, or worse – dead.

I often wondered how long her hair was. She kept it pinned back in a heavy bun or braid. It was so shiny, and it looked so soft. As she labored, wisps of hair would work their way out of the pins, and my hands ached to reach out and touch the silken strands.

She still looked like the angel I first thought her to be – only now, she didn't look as fearsome as an Angel of Death.

Everyday, the ache for her grew. She eventually began speaking more than just daily pleasantries with me. I daresay some may have even mistaken us as friendly. I thrilled that she was warming up to me. My heart soared when one day she smiled at me. It made me feel like I could jump clear over a field waist high with cotton.

"Why don't you just call me Edward from now on," I asked her one morning on our drive out of Lynchburg.

"Because that would be very improper, Lieutenant Masen," she answered.

"Improper indeed! But don't you think our circumstance is a bit different? I mean, saying 'Lieutenant Masen' every other breath is a mouthful."

"I do not call on your name every other breath," she sniffed.

"Well, all the same, Edward is simpler. And it is my name."

"'Tisn't proper." She turned to look out over a vacant field just turning pink and brown with the October morning sun.

"Proper," I scoffed. "Is it proper for you to be traveling with a man you barely know, to places you probably shouldn't go?"

"This is different," she defended. "Besides, it was_ you_ that wanted _me_ to come along, _Lieutenant Masen_."

I gave her a wry smile. "Edward."

She crossed her arms over her soft, womanly chest. "Lieutenant Masen."

I leaned in close to her ear. "Edward," I breathed.

Isabella immediately pulled away and I could see her turning red. I had embarrassed her.

"I will _not_ call you Edward," she said sullenly.

"Nah-_ha_! You just did!" I reared back and pointed at her.

She slapped my hand away. "Lord, you're worse than my Ja–."

Isabella paused, but didn't finish what she was saying. She turned completely away from me then. All the lightheartedness of our exchange was gone. Something was bothering her.

I turned my attention back to the horse and the driving lines in my hands, but I could hear Isabella sniffling. She was upset, and I had done that to her.

"Miss Swan, I am sorry if I said something to upset you. Please don't cry." My voice was soft, pleading. I didn't try reaching out and touching her. I didn't want her to reject my touch, as she would surely do.

"Just drive," she mumbled.

I sighed and did as she asked. I didn't pester her any more.

The day was long and it was dark before we could make it back to headquarters. I helped Isabella down from her seat; she still wouldn't look at me. Then I unhitched the horse from the supply wagon. I put the horse away in the nearby livery for the night and returned to unload the wagon.

The people of the south were resilient. Everyday there were less and less who needed our services, but there were a few that we'd see on our regular weekly rounds.

There weren't any people left in the hospital either. Isabella had already put away a good portion of the leftover supplies. I picked up the last box and took it into the darkened ward. I didn't see her as I sat the box on an empty bed, but there was a candle burning in a back room.

I followed the light and stopped in the doorway.

I felt the air slowly leave my chest as I took in the sight of her. She was standing in front of a cracked mirror, combing through her waist-length hair. A waterfall of sparkling browns and deep reds fell down her back in wavy curls.

Her eyes found mine in the mirror and she gasped. She whirled on me and said, "I caught my hair on a nail when I walked through the ward. Pulled a big chunk of it out..." I stepped in closer to her. She showed me the lock of hair that looked like it had been jaggedly sheered off. I took it between my fingers. It was soft. It smelled slightly sooty, because she'd stood too close to the wood fire in one of the houses we'd visited earlier in the day.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Did it hurt?"

"Not too bad. It just pulled a little."

"Good. I can't stand the thought of you being hurt. Ever."

I closed in on the space between us. Isabella's eyes were dark and wide as she stared up at me. This was the first time I'd been so near to her.

"Why do you say that?" she asked me.

"Because you're too important to me..."

**.**

_**I. M. Swan**_

I don't know if it was the way he said the words, so tender and... He said them like he'd said a heartfelt prayer.

It could have been the tilt of his head, the conviction in his eyes, but the moment shifted with a monumental feeling of change.

It was important to me that I was important to him.

I was a woman of twenty years. And I felt so alone...

And Lieutenant Masen looked at me with such naked want and delicious need glowing in his eyes. It was a heady feeling, and I wanted to bask in it.

...If only for just a few stolen moments.

His lips descended before I could ask for them. They hovered just over mine; a whisper, a breeze, a flutter of a touch.

He spoke, and the movement danced over my lips. "I've wanted to kiss you for a long time, Miss Swan." His hands wound into my hair, fisting and rolling until he reeled me in. His breath upon my face made me shiver – an anxious feeling roiled around in my belly. It felt like excitement. His breaths became hotter, burning, until his mouth sealed over mine.

This kiss was a new feeling. I'd had pecks on the cheek, forehead, and a quick kiss on the lips. But this... This was a dance I didn't know.

I was so intrigued by the intricacies of what I was feeling, I didn't have the heart to stop or pull away. I knew it wasn't right, but I just didn't care. I wanted more. I wanted to learn more of this dance and I was more than willing to let him lead.

His lips were wonderful soft against mine. He'd kiss hard and then he'd drag his plump lower lip over mine. He suckled each of my lips like they were sugary candy.

Each caress of his lips was careful and easy. I wanted to learn everything.

His arms came around me. He still held me captive by my hair as if he wasn't going to let me get away. But I didn't want to go anywhere...

Lieutenant Masen groaned into my mouth and started pushing me backward to the cot in the corner of the room. When the backs of my legs hit it I went down and Lieutenant Masen fell down with me.

His warm weight was a new sensation. I didn't wear a corset anymore, not since I'd been working in the hospital. I was glad not to have one on for I could feel his strong chest pressing into mine. My legs moved apart naturally to let him come to rest between them.

His tongue began teasing my lips the same time his hands came loose from my hair. While his tongue moved, his hands did too. One held my head, the other traveled to my neck. I gasped when his fingers grazed my collarbone. As soon as my mouth opened, he thrust his tongue inside. He growled and I felt the vibrations all the way to my toes.

His hand moved lower, and touched the sensitive side of my breast. I bucked my hips against him and arched my back. His lips moved down my exposed neck as I continued to stretch against him, offering more for him to touch. His hands were wonderful like his lips.

He reached for the first button on my blouse, but then he froze. A noise from the main hospital ward caught in my ear. I stopped breathing. Seconds of silence passed. A loud, feverish roaring was all I could hear in my head. The moment we began to relax, thinking that the danger of discovery had passed, the thunderclap of a slamming door made us both jolt in fright.

My heart faltered in my chest as I pulled back to look into Lieutenant Masen's wild eyes. We didn't breath as we listened for someone to come in and discover us.

But there was no one. Just a howling breeze circling the building.

"I've got to go. I've got to get home. They're expecting me for supper." I pushed him off me and jumped up from the cot.

"Isabella, wait! I'll see you home," Lieutenant Masen called after me.

I paused and caught my reflection in the mirror. Lord! If my mother saw me now, she would know exactly what I'd been doing! I raked my fingers through my hair and began braiding it back. All my pins were still sitting on the ledge. I slipped them back into my hair.

"Isabella?" he called again.

"Shh! Just hush. Let me be a minute." My lips were swollen and red; my cheeks were high with color… I was a mess.

I took a huge breath in through my nose and then let it out in a sigh. That had been way too close. If the wind hadn't slammed the door shut, I don't know where things would have ended up. My heart was still pounding away. I don't know if it was from what the Lieutenant and I were doing, or if it was because the slamming door scared me half to death.

What was I thinking? Lands sakes alive! He's a Yankee!

"I'm ready to go home now," I murmured as I turned away from the mirror.

He was anxiously watching me. It looked like he'd worried a button clean off his vest. I swallowed hard and grabbed the candle I'd lit on the table beside the cot.

I stopped when I got to the door and looked out. I don't think I'd walked these streets in the dark before.

Lieutenant Masen blew out the candle and secured the door. He offered his elbow, and against my better judgment, I took it. We were halfway to my aunt and uncle's house when he began to speak.

"Isa–, Miss Swan, you're going to have to see if Dr. Cullen can accompany you on our rounds for the next week or so. I'm going to be in Washington."

"Oh?" I think I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to look him in the eye tomorrow, like nothing had happened between us.

"Yes. I've, uh, some official business to take care of. Shouldn't take more than two weeks." He smiled down at me and I quickly looked away.

Inside, I was churning with different emotions, like a pot of vegetable stew about to boil over. I... liked Lieutenant Masen. He was a nice man, and he wasn't difficult to look at. As mush as I wanted to give in, I couldn't deny the fierce nature of my Confederate background. I was Southern born and raised, and he was not.

I took my arm away from his when we reached the town house. I felt sure my pounding heart would give away its hidden secrets. I had to get away from him while I was thinking relatively clearly. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Have a nice trip to Washington." I made for the parlor, but he grabbed hold of my fingers before I could retreat. His touch created a fire within me,

"Isabella..." he whispered, warm and gentle. "I wanted to–" He could not finish what he was saying because Carlisle stepped out on the stoop.

"Bella? Lieutenant? I was wondering when y'all would be home. Days are getting shorter..."

"Yes," the Lieutenant answered.

I pulled my fingers from his grip and mustered a shaky, "Good night," before taking my leave of the both of them.

**.**

For a week and a half, I didn't have to see the Lieutenant's face at all. Carlisle and I got along well delivering government goods and treating patients.

When we got home that night, I noticed that Papa had company in the parlor. I was about to go to my room to freshen up, but Papa called my name.

"Bella, please join us in the parlor."

My heart stopped when I laid eyes on Papa's guest.

It was a Yankee, decked out in full military regalia; gold buttons flashed down his chest, a U.S. belt buckle at his waist, tasseled saber, white leather gloves. Lieutenant Masen.

Papa gave me a cheerless smile from his chair as he tapped on his pipe. "Lieutenant Masen, I don't presume to speak for my Bella. She is still my daughter, but she is a woman fully grown, and does not need the direction of an old man. You will have to take up this matter with her." And then Papa left.

A sinking feeling started pulling down on my chest. I think I had the long and short of the present situation. I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees. I clasped my hands together and said a silent prayer. I prayed that I was wrong. I wasn't ready for this. I needed more time.

"Isabella Swan, I have asked for a permanent position here in Lynchburg," he started, and I opened my eyes to see his tall riding boots, spit-shined and dust-free.

He knelt on his left knee and I knew that my prayers wouldn't be answered this night.

"Isabella Swan, I want to make you my wife." He smiled at me and his mint-colored eyes smiled, too.

My heart leapt at the words. I could have said yes, and accepted his offer, but it was something that I couldn't do. "Just stop right there. Don't say another word. I pray that you will go home and find yourself a happy northern girl to be your bride, because you will not find a happy bride in me." I stood and moved close to the fireplace. The heat felt good and helped soothe my frayed nerves. Deep down, it hurt to say the words, but I knew they were true. I did not think I was the right woman for Lieutenant Masen.

"I do not want another girl, I want you. I lov–."

"No. Lieutenant, don't. The other night, I got carried away; I was weak. It will not happen again." A tassel from Michael's saber dangled just below the stone mantle ledge. I fingered it and gently set it back on the ledge.

Lieutenant Masen grabbed my arm and spun me around. "It was not _nothing_," he growled.

I still had the tassel in my hand when he whisked me around to face him. Several things fell off the mantle and onto the stone grate. I gasped and bent to pick up Michael's sword.

"I am sorry, I should not have done that," the Lieutenant mumbled, pink in the cheeks. He picked up the other items that had fallen. As soon as he looked at them, his whole body froze. All color drained from his face as he stared at my brothers' tintypes.

"Who are they?" he asked barely above a whisper.

"Those are my brothers. They all fought in the war. Jasper and Emmett, they are at home, trying to make a farm out of our ruined plantation. They made it through Gettysburg alive."

"Who are these two?" he held up Michael's and Jacob's tintypes. My heart constricted with an aching pain as I looked on the images of the two of them.

"That's Michael. Our youngest brother. Just a little older than me, but he was my best friend."

"And this one?"

I sighed as I looked at the last picture. "That's Jacob Black. He was... mine."

Lieutenant Masen blinked several times, and I noticed that his jaw was ticking.

"These men, they did not make it through the war alive?"

I shook my head and swallowed down a lump in my throat. "They both died up near Culpeper. Kellysville in 1863. March of that year."

Lieutenant Masen became even more pale as he started to speak. "There were eleven Confederates who died that day..."

"How do you know that?" I asked, looking between him and the tintypes.

"Because I was there..."

Everything recoiled inside of me. Any false hope I'd let myself hold on to, regarding my feelings for the Lieutenant, flew away with my next thoughts. _Enemy. He was_ there. I looked at his sword, his pistol, his spurs, imagining them stained with blood. _Oh, Lord, even the horse he rode in on could have been the animal that trampled my Michael and my Jacob._

"It could have been you."

Lieutenant Masen's eyes locked onto mine. "No, Isabella, you don't understand."

I backed away, shaking my head. "You could have been the one that killed them."

"Bella, I was there, I wanted to stop it. The men were crazed when they attacked your brother's cavalry. I did not want it to happen."

I was crying then. Tears burned trails down to my chin. I shook with such strong tremors.

"I am truly sorry, but my heart belongs to the gray. My future belongs to the gray. In my eyes, you'll always be blue, the enemy. And I know that plenty of Northern boys were killed by the boys in gray, but there will always be this rift between us. Michael and Jacob are the reason I can't marry you. Their blood forbids me to even consider your offer. Their blood was spilt and the tide between us is stained scarlet with it. I cannot love what killed mine."

**.**

_**E. A. Masen**_

She left me in the parlor to find my way out. I understood her reasoning. I understood why she couldn't be mine.

But the pain of losing her was more painful than any battle wound I'd taken during the war. When she left me alone, Isabella Swan left scars on my heart that I knew would never heal.

I had thought that victory would be mine when I asked for her hand.

I never took into consideration the consequences of her refusal.

**.**

* * *

**A/N: This was my submission in the 2010 Age of Edward contest. I know some of you will go ape over the ending. I, for one, loved the ending. Edward and Bella do not find happiness. *evil laugh***

**No, I'm not going to renege on my ending. **

**Thanks for reading.**


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